After the service, Martha expected Abel to leave immediately.
He didn't.
That worried her more.
He remained beside the last pew while neighbors gathered around Reverend Hartley. Rosie gripped his hand tightly, her other arm wrapped around Agnes.
Silas Bell stood near the front accepting handshakes.
Martha watched him.
He had the polished appearance of a successful businessman: dark coat cut by an expensive tailor, clean-shaven jaw, smooth brown hair, and boots without so much as a streak of mud.
People liked him.
That much was obvious.
"Bought the old Chandler grain warehouse," a farmer told him.
"Expanding," Bell replied pleasantly.
"Always knew you'd make something of that freight business."
Bell smiled.
Then his eyes moved toward Abel.
The smile stayed.
His eyes did not.
He walked slowly down the aisle.
"Crane."
Abel gave a small nod.
"Bell."
Silas looked at Rosie.
Her face disappeared behind Abel's coat.
"She's gotten tall."
Abel shifted slightly, blocking his daughter from view.
Silas then noticed Martha.
"And you must be Miss Dean."
Martha disliked that he knew her name.
"Have we met?"
"No. But Caldwell's a small town."
"So I'm discovering."
"Silas Bell."
He extended his hand.
Martha looked at it but did not take it.
"I heard Reverend Hartley say your name."
Silas withdrew his hand without showing offense.
"You're working for Abel?"
"I'm managing his household."
"Brave woman."
"Is housekeeping dangerous in Kansas?"
A nearby farmer coughed to hide a laugh.
Silas's smile tightened.
"Everything can be dangerous if a person doesn't understand what they're stepping into."
Martha met his gaze.
"Then it's fortunate I look where I step."
Abel spoke quietly.
"We're leaving."
Outside, Rosie refused to walk past Silas's horse.
She began trembling.
Martha lifted her.
The child wrapped both arms around Martha's neck.
That surprised everyone, including Martha.
Abel said nothing until they were nearly halfway home.
Then he pulled the wagon to the side of the road.
"Martha."
She looked at him.
"Yes?"
"You need to know something."
Rosie was asleep against Martha's shoulder.
Abel stared across the brown fields.
"Silas Bell was my wife's cousin."
Martha waited.
"He came here from Missouri four years ago. Didn't have much then. Clara convinced me to help him. I loaned him money to purchase wagons. Introduced him to farmers. Helped him get freight contracts."
"And?"
"Within two years he was earning more than anyone expected."
"That doesn't explain Rosie."
"No."
Abel's jaw worked.
"Clara discovered something."
"What?"
"I don't know."
Martha frowned.
"She wouldn't tell you?"
"She tried."
He looked down at his hands.
"The night before she died."
Wind moved across the prairie.
"She told me Silas had been lying. Said his business wasn't what everyone thought. She was frightened. I asked why. She said she'd found papers she shouldn't have seen."
"What papers?"
"I don't know."
"Why didn't she show you?"
"Because we argued."
The words came heavily.
Abel's voice lowered.
"I told her Silas was family. Told her she had always distrusted him. I said she was imagining trouble."
He swallowed.
"Those were some of the last words I ever said to my wife."
Martha understood the rest before he spoke.
"The next day?"
"She took the wagon to town. Never came back."
"Accident?"
"They found the wagon overturned near Cottonwood Creek. One wheel had come loose. Clara was dead."
Martha looked at Rosie.
"What about your daughter?"
"She was with Clara."
Martha's breath caught.
"Rosie?"
"A ranch hand found her fifty yards from the wagon. Scraped up. Terrified. She wouldn't speak for two days."
"And when she did?"
"She said a man had been there."
"The silver horse."
Abel nodded once.
"The sheriff said she was confused."
"Did Silas own that watch chain then?"
"I didn't know about it until afterward."
"Why didn't you tell the sheriff?"
"I did."
"And?"
"Silas said he'd lost it weeks earlier. Half the town defended him. Sheriff Mercer said there was no evidence."
Martha stared down the road.
"Do you believe Clara's death was an accident?"
Abel didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
That evening Martha found Rosie beneath the kitchen table feeding Agnes imaginary soup.
Martha joined her.
"Agnes hungry?"
"Very."
"Terrible business."
Rosie nodded solemnly.
After a moment Martha asked, "Do you remember the day your mama went away?"
Rosie's spoon stopped.
Martha immediately regretted asking.
"You don't have to tell me."
Rosie whispered, "Papa gets sad."
"Yes."
"I make Papa sad."
Martha's heart twisted.
"No, Rosie."
"He gets sad when I talk about Mama."
"That isn't because you make him sad."
The child looked up.
"It's because he misses her. Missing someone hurts, but talking about them doesn't cause the hurt."
Rosie considered this.
"Mama sang."
"What did she sing?"
Rosie hummed a little melody.
Abel entered halfway through it.
He froze.
Rosie stopped.
Martha stood.
Abel's face had tightened, but this time he didn't flee the memory.
"What song?" he asked.
Rosie stared at him uncertainly.
Then hummed again.
Abel sat slowly.
"She sang that when she churned butter."
"Did she?"
"Badly."
Rosie grinned.
For the next ten minutes, father and daughter talked about Clara.
It was the first time in sixteen months.
Later, when Rosie had gone to bed, Abel found Martha washing dishes.
"Thank you."
She kept her eyes on the plate.
"For what?"
"You know."
"You don't need to thank me for letting your daughter remember her mother."
"No. But I do need to thank you for reminding me she should be allowed to."
Martha turned.
The distance between them seemed suddenly smaller.
Then someone pounded on the front door.
Abel reached for the rifle above the mantel.
Martha's pulse jumped.
He opened the door.
Duff stood outside, breathless.
"Barn!"
They ran.
Smoke curled from the rear hayloft.
Abel and Duff hauled buckets while Martha led the horses out.
The fire was contained before it spread, but one corner of the loft blackened badly.
Abel climbed a ladder to inspect it.
He came down holding something.
A small piece of oily cloth.
"Lantern oil," he said.
Duff shook his head.
"Ain't used a lantern in there today."
Abel's expression changed.
Martha understood.
Someone had deliberately started the fire.
The following morning, Abel rode into Caldwell to speak with Sheriff Mercer.
Martha stayed with Rosie.
Around noon, she heard hoofbeats.
A rider approached.
Silas Bell.
Martha stepped onto the porch.
Rosie was inside.
Silas dismounted.
"Abel home?"
"No."
"I can wait."
"No."
He smiled.
"You're protective for a woman who's been here less than a week."
"I dislike uninvited guests quickly."
Silas leaned against the porch rail.
"Abel tell you about Clara?"
"Some."
"Then he probably told you I killed her."
"He didn't."
That seemed to surprise him.
"He didn't have to."
For the first time, Silas's pleasant expression vanished.
Only briefly.
Then it returned.
"You should be careful, Miss Dean. Abel's grief has made him suspicious."
"And what has made Rosie afraid of you?"
His eyes sharpened.
"Children fear all kinds of things."
"She remembered your silver horse."
Silas touched the chain.
"Did she?"
"You knew she had?"
"I knew she saw me wear it often."
Martha studied him.
He had answered too smoothly.
Silas stepped closer.
"You're new here. Take some advice. Do your work. Earn your wages. Don't involve yourself in old tragedies."
Martha didn't move.
"I had a husband once who gave orders that way."
Silas glanced at her left hand.
"No ring."
"He's dead."
"My condolences."
"Don't waste them."
A strange expression passed over Silas's face.
Martha continued.
"He liked deciding what I was allowed to know. Where I could go. What I could say. He mistook silence for obedience."
She stepped closer.
"People often make that mistake with quiet women."
Silas's eyes hardened.
Then Rosie appeared behind the screen door.
The moment she saw him, she screamed.
Not cried.
Screamed.
Abel heard it from half a mile away as he rode home.
By the time he reached the yard, Silas was mounting his horse.
Abel jumped down.
"What are you doing here?"
"Visiting family."
"You aren't family."
Silas looked toward the porch.
"You should teach your housekeeper manners."
Abel's expression went cold.
"You should stay off my land."
Silas tipped his hat.
"Careful, Abel. Folks might think grief has finally made you unreasonable."
He rode away.
Abel immediately went to Rosie.
Martha held her.
Rosie kept repeating one sentence.
"He looked in the box."
Abel knelt.
"What box?"
"Mama's box."
Abel and Martha exchanged a look.
"What box, sweetheart?"
Rosie pointed toward the bedroom.
They searched Clara's old room.
Nothing.
The closet.
Nothing.
The attic.
Nothing.
Finally Rosie crawled beneath her parents' old bed.
She tapped one floorboard.
Abel pried it loose.
Beneath was a narrow space.
Empty.
But the dust showed clearly that something rectangular had once rested there.
Martha whispered, "Someone took it."
Abel stared at the empty hiding place.
Then Rosie said:
"Mama put papers in it."
"What papers?"
"Numbers."
Abel's face drained.
Martha asked, "When did you see them?"
"The day she went away."
Rosie hugged Agnes.
"Mama said if the bad man came, I had to hide."
Abel closed his eyes.
Martha understood now.
Clara had found evidence.
She had hidden it.
Someone had searched the house after her death.
Perhaps more than once.
And maybe that was the real reason Abel's previous housekeepers had left.
Not because Rosie cried.
Not because she spoke to walls.
But because someone had been trying to frighten everyone away from Crane Farm.
That night Abel locked every door.
He loaded his rifle.
Martha placed a chair beneath her doorknob.
At two in the morning, something struck the kitchen window.
Glass shattered.
Abel came running.
A rock lay on the floor.
Paper was tied around it.
Martha unfolded the note.
Four words had been written in charcoal.
SEND THE WOMAN AWAY.
Abel looked at Martha.
"You leave tomorrow."
"No."
"This isn't a discussion."
"Good. Then you can stop talking."
His eyes flashed.
"This is dangerous."
"I noticed."
"I hired you to keep house."
"And I'm doing excellent work."
"Martha."
"Abel."
He lowered his voice.
"I won't have another woman hurt because of me."
She stared at him.
There it was.
Not anger.
Fear.
Guilt.
The same guilt that had kept him from speaking Clara's name.
Martha walked closer.
"Clara wasn't hurt because of you."
"You don't know that."
"No. But I know something about men who make women responsible for their own violence."
His expression changed.
Martha continued quietly.
"If Silas Bell murdered your wife, that belongs to Silas Bell. Not you."
Abel said nothing.
"And if he's trying to frighten me," Martha added, "he'll have to do better than a rock."
She turned toward the broom.
"Now help me clean this glass before Rosie wakes."
For a moment Abel simply stared.
Then he bent and picked up the largest shard.
It was the beginning of something neither of them yet knew how to name.
Not love.
Not yet.
But trust.
And on the frontier, trust was often the first thing a person built before daring to call a place home.
---